Under Cover of Darkness
by Bastetian
Summary: 'Shane Schofield wasn't always in command of a ground recon unit ... He used to be a pilot.'
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Hello! Thank you for looking in on this story. If you've come back 'cause you read my other stuff and liked it, welcome back! If on the other hand, my other stuff isn't your cup of tea at all (which is fine, nothing wrong with that, everyone's tastes are different) a big welcome to you as well. This story is my attempt to write something that might appeal to a broader audience.

If you're new to my work, you're about to discover I write the most ludicrously long authors notes. This one is actually relevant, so pretty please, actually read it! I did discuss this at the beginning of Confessions but that was a while ago.  
Mr Reilly is rather flexible in his dates. Case in point: Ice Station is set in the late nineties, Scarecrow sometime after 2008 and yet Schofield ages only 1 year… Rebound on the other hand goes through an even more incredible change! In the space of 24 hours (the period in which Ice station is set) he manages to lose two years, going from 23 to 21. Very impressive!  
So, I've tweaked the numbers a bit to work out a chronology that I reckon works pretty well and is hopefully logical. Schofield does end up a bit younger than is canonical but I reckon that fits better with the oddly maternal way Mother is always looking after him and the almost sibling like tension between him and Book II in Area 7. Plus, technically most recon marines are between the ages of 18-28. If you're a currently serving recon marine who's older than 28, that's not a huge issue but you can't apply for recon after that age.  
Anyway…  
As an officer, Schofield would have had to complete four years of university whilst earning his commission. Add a bit for basic training and flight school and he's probably 22/23ish when he's serving in Bosnia. After the accident, another 10 weeks of OCS to retrain as a ground marine. A year and a bit later, he's a recon commander being posted to an obscure ice station in Antarctica at around 24/25  
Although he doesn't come into this story at all other than a mention in passing, Book II (who we know is 25 in Area 7) is only just younger than Schofield at 21.  
Okay, essay concluded.

One more little thing, I work in a hospital so my medical knowledge is pretty good but if anybody else actually trained as a nurse or a doctor spots any glaring mistakes, let me know!

Thanks.

Chapter 1

He saw the way they looked at Schofield.  
They saw a razor sharp mind behind enigmatic sunglasses.  
They saw a tough young lieutenant who pushed them hard and expected no less than everything they had, because that's what he always gave himself.

The younger ones saw a leader to be admired.  
The older ones saw potential that deserved their respect.

A cool-headed commander under fire and a marine to the bone.

But that wasn't what Buck Riley saw when he looked at Shane Schofield.

_One Year Previously_

Buck "Book" Riley wasn't sure exactly what he was still doing sitting in the drab, sterile room. The harsh fluorescent light that throbbed behind his eyelids drained him of what little energy he had left as effectively as it bleached his skin. His fatigues were torn and streaked with mud and other dark stains he tried to push from his mind. His muscles, still weary and strained from the mission, were not aided by the cramped, plastic chair he was currently perched on.  
Had been perched on for nigh on twelve hours.

He should have gone home – called his son just because he could, kissed his wife goodnight, reassure her he was alright as he tried to forget what he had seen.  
But he couldn't.

Which was why he was still here.  
Lingering in the soulless room, empty save for the chair upon which he sat in the corner and the cold light of the morning.

The doctors had taken him straight to surgery, charging out as soon as the helicopter had landed with a fierce determination in their eyes. Amid hasty shouts of numbers that meant nothing to Book, they dragged the young marine out, with masks and needles and lethal looking instruments already at the ready. He was still dressed in his blood-soaked fatigues and immediately, one of the doctors started to cut him out of them, exposing his chest to view as they ran. His chest was covered in lacerations and deep punctures. Book didn't mind looking at the chest though, if it meant he didn't have to look at those eyes.  
Although he had stopped screaming several hours ago, lapsing into unconsciousness, the marine stirred feebly on the trolley, the attention no doubt aggravating his wounds.

The soldiers had watched, relieved, as he was taken away on a gurney and into far more capable hands than theirs. They had done their job, they had got him this far, still alive and now they could move on to the next mission. Their young chopper pilot looked particularly shaken. Buck supposed that so far above the ground, pilots felt untouchable, got cocky, and to see another young man such as himself brought to ground in such a cruel way…  
He patted his shoulder wordlessly in what he hoped was a reassuring way before following in the wake of the trolley.

Nurses, doctors, patients and visitors all turned to look as they rushed through the corridors and Buck wasn't all that surprised. Whilst the young marine was certainly drawing a lot of the looks as he lay helpless on the stretcher, doctors working feverishly on his exposed body, covered from the eyebrows down with blood; such a sight was unfortunately not unusual by the standards of a military hospital. No, Buck thought, it was equally likely that it was he himself, wandering slightly lost behind the frenzied procession and also streaked liberally with blood – not his own, he was one of the few of the recon team who had been fortunate enough to return unscathed – was also attracting attention.

Lights flashed above his head, doors blurred past his sight, the noise of the hospital was all around but it all simply passed by Buck Riley. He only had eyes for the huddle of people surrounding the gurney as it disappeared through a set of swinging doors. Not watching where he was going, they came flying back and almost knocked Book off his feet. Suddenly, a hand was on his chest. A hand wearing a white glove and connected to a pale blue scrub gown.

The nurse was petite, at least a head shorted than Book, but the gentle touch stopped him all the same.  
"You can't go in there," she said kindly, "but I'll take you to his room. You can wait for him there."

Book couldn't have told you how they got there but she somehow deposited him in the empty room and pressing a warm cup of tea into his hands, said reassuringly, "He'll be just fine. The doctors will do everything they can."

And with that, she was gone and Book was left alone.

That had been a long time ago.  
The undrunk tea was cold, the room still empty and Book was starting to worry.

He couldn't go and ask anyone for news either. He wouldn't know what to ask.

He didn't even know his name.

He was sure they'd been told it in the briefing but then again, it had all been such a rush that such details might have been overlooked.  
Hell, for all he knew, they might've rescued the wrong damn prisoner. They didn't do an id check and the kid they were rescuing was in no fit state to tell them.

But he supposed there couldn't have been that many more downed marine pilots hidden in the jungles of Bosnia.

It had been Book who had found him. Through the brutal fighting, he had broken his cover on a hunch. It was hard to tell in the carnage all around but there was a dark, suspicious looking stain at the base of a cupboard hidden in the corner of the barn.

It was ominously silent.

With his team covering him as best they could, he broke out and ran for all he was worth towards it.

He figured the extraordinary amounts of bullets flying round his head was a pretty good sign he was headed in the right direction. The Serbs sure as hell didn't want him getting to that cupboard.

There was no way he could stay in the open long enough to check it out though, so throwing himself behind the closest bit of debris to the cupboard he could see, he took up a covering position and beckoned his teammates over when he heard it.

A low moan coming from the cupboard behind him.

Alive then.

Their target was still alive.

Firing off another angry round, Book dropped another few of the crazed Serb assholes. Their faces simply dissolving into clouds of red as his bullets broke through their noses.  
"Could use a hand over here," he hissed into his mike.

Another two marines hurdled from safety and ran at a half crouch across the open floor of the barn, towards Book's hiding spot, whilst the remaining marines laid down a deadly cover fire. Although the Serbian numbers had been drastically reduced – they relied on sheer strength of arms over finesse – the air was still thick with bullets. The younger of the two running marines' bicep exploded and Book heard him roar with pain but he still managed to stumble to the relative safety of the rubble. Despite his obvious pain, they couldn't afford to waste a second.  
"Cover me," he ordered sharply.

He broke cover and ran for all he was worth to the nearby cupboard. A bullet still nearly took his ear off until a deafening spray of gunfire burst forth from his teammates. Angling his gun upwards, he shot the lock off. The pilot they were supposed to be rescuing, he reasoned, was probably slumped at the bottom and so shooting upwards was the least likely direction to injure him.

The door swung open.

Book blanched.

He was wrong.

They had crudely manacled the captured soldier to a wooden bar, wedged in the top of the cupboard. Book could tell from the angle he was hanging at that his shoulder had dislocated long ago. His fatigues were torn and dirty and his breathing was frighteningly shallow but none of that was what immediately grabbed Book's attention.

It was the eyes.  
Or lack thereof.

Where there should have been pupils was a jagged open wound, made even more gruesome by the stark whites surrounding and the dirty, ragged flesh of his eyelids.  
Book could hardly see his face through the blood that coated it.

The marine hung listlessly, didn't even look up at his rescuer.  
He couldn't.

Another stray bullet ricocheted above Book's head, jolting him back into action. He might have wanted to crawl away into a corner and vomit but this kid's life was in his hands. He swallowed back hard and eyed the bar again. It would hurt like hell, for sure he thought, but it would also be a damn sight faster and speed was of the essence.

With no way of removing the chains that bound the marine, he instead aimed a vicious kick at the side wall of the cupboard, which shattered. Immediately, the tension holding the bar in place gave way and he slumped down. Reacting as fast as he could, Book caught him before he hit the ground and swung him over his own shoulders in a fireman's lift, bar and all, trying to be careful of the marine's injured shoulder. Nonetheless, the movement hurt and the marine, jolted back to an unpleasant consciousness by the pain, moaned aloud.

Book took off at a run and hoped like hell the two young marines who were covering him followed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of them take a hit and the other, already encumbered by his injured arm, stopped only momentarily to throw his uninjured arm around the others waist and half carry him out the door.

To break out of the main entrance to the barn and into the bright sunlight was like blessed relief but he wasn't done yet. They had left their chopper idling in a clearing nearby and the steady thump of its blades filled the air, mixed with the strangled screams from the marine on his shoulders.

The door was already thrown open and the medic that had joined them was waiting with his arms outstretched. Book passed the rescued soldier over and quickly turned back around to help hoist his other injured team mates in before jumping in himself. He seized his weapon just in time as the remaining Serbian hostiles appeared crashing through the trees in hot pursuit of the final two members of the rescue squad.  
"Pick it up," he roared as he picked off the Serbs one by one with as precise a shot as he could manage from a moving helicopter.

The chopper had already left the ground when the last two marines hurled themselves at it desperately. Throwing the gun aside, Book and the others seized them and hurled them with all their remaining strength into the chopper just as it soared off. As the two new arrivals, including the only officer and commander of the small team, caught their breath, Book surveyed the unit. Other than the medic – working feverishly over the thing that only vaguely resembled a human being – and the pilot, who had both stayed behind in the chopper, he was the only uninjured member of the team.

"Nice work Riley," the captain said, grimacing and patting Book briefly on the knee as he buckled himself into the seat next to him. "That boy owes you his life."

The rattle of a trolley going past the door disturbed him from his recollections and, gratefully, his ears immediately pricked up. Unlike the others, this one slowed as it approached.

He sat up a little straighter, peering at the door and was rewarded when it swung inwards, forced open by the bed. Accompanied by a handful of nurses, they positioned the bed against the opposite wall so that he was facing Book and began to hang the various lines and bags and drips that came with him. With a quick nod to the third nurse, they left.  
Didn't even notice Book sitting in the corner.

As the third nurse checked his vital signs and scribbled them down on the chart hanging at the end of the bed, Book cleared his throat.  
"Is he okay?" He asked tentatively and the nurse jumped nearly a foot in the air.

"He's doing just fine," she replied, clutching her ample chest. "You must be the family?"

She was small and round with tight brown curls worn short and a little on the dumpy side but she seemed kindly enough. When she spoke, he could hear the warmth in her voice. It was like a warm soup on a cold night and he knew the boy would be well looked after.  
But he still didn't leave.

Instead, he got up off his uncomfortable plastic chair and went to stand beside the young marine he'd rescued. They'd got all the blood off and replaced his fatigues with a pale blue hospital gown.  
He smelt like fresh linen and antiseptic.

"No," Book corrected. "I don't even know his name."

_Scott,_ he thought, _or something like that._  
Surely they had mentioned it at the briefing.

The nurse nodded but didn't press the point. She was now tucking the edges of the blankets in tight and smoothing the sheets down.  
The hands resting on top of them were so pale, like bone.

"Is he going to be okay?" Book asked again.

She stopped her fussing and looked straight at him.  
"Most of the wounds were shallow and the blood loss wasn't too severe, despite what it looked like. The puncture wounds present more of a problem but a tetanus shot and they should heal up alright," she began. "Shock and infection are his biggest concern at the moment. He's a bit malnourished but we'll have that fixed in a jiffy. His left shoulder was dislocated and seven of his ribs broken. At some point, one of the punctures must have hit his lung. Luckily for him, it was only the one hole in the one lung and although it collapsed, we've managed to put it right."

"See that tube there," she pointed at the prongs taped under his nose, "that's called c-pap. It's putting pressure into his lungs to keep 'em open, let him breathe easy."

Book looked hard at the boy in the bed. Tubes snaked from him everywhere – the c-thing from his nose, a clear liquid disappeared into his hand and a bag of thick, crimson blood was attached to a line going directly into his chest. He looked so small in the overly large bed.  
So very small.

He couldn't have been much older than his own son, Book thought to himself. Maybe that's why he couldn't just leave him. Surely he was going to wake up frightened, if he woke up at all.  
Somebody ought to be here for him then.

"And his eyes?" He pressed.

The nurse paused, pursing her thin lips.

"They did the best they could," she said slowly, "but we won't know for sure until the bandages come off."

Book had been avoiding looking at his face but there was no escaping it really. Thick white bandages were wrapped securely all the way around his head, obscuring his eyes and the hideous wounds that had destroyed them.  
Sometimes, humans are capable of unspeakable cruelty, Book thought.

Apart from the bump of a (broken) nose, the only distinguishing features Book could make out were a messy mop of black hair and a fine jawline. It had been nearly two weeks since he was shot down, they had said but despite two weeks in the jungle, there was only a faint trace of stubble, marred instead by hundreds of scratches and more grievous wounds.

The boy's mouth was slightly open as he slept and Book thought he had probably been handsome.

Ruddy pilots.

"He'll be alright," the nurse said, patting Book's hand comfortingly as he looked down at the prone figure. "Now, what about you?"

"Can I get you a cup of tea?" She asked.

The untouched cup from before still sat on the windowsill.  
"No thank you," he said.

"A shower then love?"

Book looked down at his torn and blood stained fatigues. Stained with the boy's blood.  
No point in getting clean again if these were all he had to put back on.  
"No thank you," he said.

"What about something to eat?"

He already had his mouth open to politely decline when his stomach answered for him with a loud rumble and he realised he hadn't eaten for over twenty-four hours.

"I'll get that meal then for you," she said, smiling knowingly.

"Thank you," he replied.

Smoothing the sheets one last time, she bustled out the door.  
It was barely a second later when she reappeared though, head just peering round the door.  
"It's Shane," she said, adding at Book's confused look, "his name,"

"Shane Schofield."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Sorry for the delays between updates, uni is a little hectic at the moment…

…so naturally I chose the week when I have three assignments due, two of which I currently haven't started, to begin work on the next chapter. Procrastination for the win!

On another note, I couldn't really imagine the original Book referring to his son as "junior" nor as Buck because that would be confusing. I have a friend called Buck and for some odd reason, he has always been called Buddy… hence the nickname. Also, in his mid to late forties, Book would have just been old enough to have served in the Vietnam War.

Electronic cookies and hugs for whoever picks the reference to my all time favourite book in this chapter. Buck strikes me as the sort of thoughtful guy who would read stuff like that.

Thanks for the feedback guys!

Chapter 2

"Riley?" A gruff voice barked and Buck was jolted out of the uncomfortable sleep he'd managed to fall into. He sat up far too quickly causing his neck to crick, its way of complaining about his sleeping position and general mistreatment of his body. Rubbing the sore spot, he looked up to find his commanding officer peering round the door frame with his arm in a sling.

"What're you still doing here? Paula must be mad with worry," He said, looking down at Book, still perched on that same damn chair. Under his battered countenance, Book thought he could detect a hint of concern.

"Could ask you the same," he replied, gingerly getting to his feet.

The captain replied with a noise somewhere between a grunt and a laugh as he jerked his head towards his arm, now wrapped in a thick white bandage.  
"Just a bit of shrapnel," he grumbled, "Now your turn."

Riley glanced toward the bed with tired eyes.  
Sure as hell he wasn't fooling anyone.

"I couldn't just leave him," he said eventually.

"Book," his commander said in a voice unusually gentle that would have startled him had he had the energy to care.

"You look like shit…"

And it was gone. Just himself, in his dirty fatigues, and his grumpy old bastard of a commanding officer, slapping his shoulder in what he supposed was meant to be part consoling, part telling him to toughen the hell up.

"…Go home, beg your wife to forgive you and feed you and for Christ's sake wash the kid's blood off before you come back."

On his way out the door, he turned back briefly with a rare smile and added, "that's an order."

Book knew he was right but that didn't stop the thought crossing his mind disdainfully.  
_Officers._

He was quite capable of looking after himself thank you very much and besides, the kid lying on the bed – Schofield, he reminded himself – was probably an officer and look at the bloody mess he'd managed to get himself into.

Crossing the room he looked down hard at the thin silver ball chain around the boy's neck, disappearing into the folds of the hospital gown. Carefully, so as not to disturb him, Book slipped a hand just below the neckline and fished out the small metal plate.

It was hot against his hand from where it had been pressed against the boy's body, absorbing his heat.

_Lieutenant Commander_, he interpreted the short hand. symbols

Book let out a low whistle. The kid either had good connections or some serious talent to have a rank like that at his age.  
"Not bad kiddo," He said with a smile as he ruffled the dark hair but Lieutenant Commander Schofield didn't stir. From what Buck could see, his face was peaceful as he slept under those bandages.

"I'll be back," he said as he made to leave the room. He wasn't sure if he was reassuring the boy or himself but he'd heard it said somewhere that people in comas could hear you.  
Not that the boy was in a coma – surely he'd wake up soon – but it was worth a try.

By the time he pulled into his own little regulation white washed military cottage, Buck Riley was starting to realise exactly how tired he was. He ached right to the bone and his eyes felt so damn heavy but it was nothing a good hot shower and an equally steamy cup of coffee wouldn't fix.

As he walked in the door, he could already smell a pot brewing.  
Sometimes, he reckoned he was the luckiest man alive to be married to Paula.

"Honey, I'm home," he called out and his wonderful wife appeared around the door to the living room. Her light brown hair, flecked with grey at the temples, was swept up into a messy bun and her face wore the same wide smile he'd fallen in love with so many years ago now. Before she could even speak, he pulled her soft body to himself and held her close, inhaling her familiar scent. She smelt like warm bread and cinnamon and something floral he could never identify.

It didn't matter if he'd been to Saigon or the local shops; Book always loved coming home to her.

"What were they thinking, sending a kid into a war zone?" He asked.  
In his head, the words were angry but muffled by the soft skin of her neck, they just sounded tired.

They'd had many conversations like this over the course of their marriage. As a recon, his operations were almost always blacklisted so he couldn't tell her anything. Through the years, she had somehow learnt to follow the threads of the conversation and ignore the holes. Paula Riley knew, in the way only a woman can, what was really bothering her husband and she always knew what to say.

She pulled back and, resting her hands gently on either side of his face, she forced his dark brown eyes to meet her cool grey ones.  
"And how old were you when you went to 'Nam?" She asked wisely.

Buck Riley found he didn't have a suitable answer to that for, as always, his darling wife was correct.  
The kid had just as much right to risk his life as he did.

She smiled at him with raised eyebrows before pottering off to the kitchen to finish making that pot of coffee. Buck was always more agreeable with a few cups down his neck.

"Doesn't make it okay," he grumbled as he slumped at the kitchen bench, massaging the headache forming above his eyes. She passed him the cup wordlessly and he drank half of it before he continued; "What if it had been Buddy?"

She looked at him, suddenly serious. Every line that crinkled at the corner of her eyes or bracketed her mouth seemed to deepen. Settling herself into the chair beside him, she covered his broad weather-beaten hand with her own.  
"Sometimes," she said slowly, "You've got to let children make their own mistakes."

"Just like their father," she added with a smile. "You can't save the whole world sweetheart."

Riley downed the rest of the coffee in one swallow and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, before running off for a hot shower and some clean clothes.

Maybe he couldn't always save the world but he'd be damned if he didn't try.  
For her.

Methodically, Book scrubbed every inch of the other marine's blood off his skin and out from under his fingernails.  
Funnily enough, it made him feel better.

Now Buck Riley wasn't stupid. Perhaps he thought slow but only because he was being thorough and as he stood in the shower, letting the hot jets wash away the blood and grime and Bosnian dirt, an idea hit him.

The kid – 'Schofield,' he berated himself mentally again, 'Schofield.' He was going to have to try harder with that. If the kid woke up and heard him call him that, Buck was willing to bet he'd end up flat on his back with another bruise to add to his collection on _Schofield's_ account, blind or no – needed company and Buck, well he needed an audience and it wasn't like he'd probably ever see the kid again after this.  
Hell, he didn't really know why he was going to go back anyway, only that he would.

As he walked back out his front door, Buck paused only to kiss his wife and grab a single large battered notebook that was stuffed with flyaway loose-leaf sheets and napkins and anything else he could scribble on. Every possible inch of it was covered in his cramped scrawl.

Watching him go, notebook in hand, Paula just smiled and shook her head a little to herself.

By the time he'd arrived at the white façade of John Hoskins University Hospital and wandered through the now familiar corridors to the small room on the corner of the fifth floor, another couple of lines had hit him and the first thing he did was seize a stack of napkins lying beside the untouched lunch tray. Schofield still slept soundly.

He rustled through his pockets, looking for the pen that he always kept handy and began to scrawl them down before he forgot. Flashes of inspiration tended to hit him at inconvenient moments and he found he just had to write them before they drove him mad flapping around inside his head, or even worse, managed to escape.  
Which was exactly how his unit had managed to find out about his little hobby.

Not that Buck really considered it a hobby. He needed to write like he needed to breathe.  
It helped him forget the world he actually lived in and remember the type he was fighting for.  
One where everything had a happy ending, where the darkness passed and all that was green and good in the world was restored.

He knew he'd never be published but that didn't matter. He wrote for himself, not for anyone else and so very few had ever laid eyes on the contents of the once handsome but now rather worn leather-bound notebook.  
"Well kiddo," Buck broke the silence, addressing the prone figure still lying motionless in the bed, "I don't do this often, so you'd best listen up."

And he began to read in his slow and oddly soothing voice.

"What do you think?" He asked but his only reply was a low moan from the bed.

"That bad eh?" He said flippantly but he was already getting to his feet. Other than the screams, it was the first sound he'd heard Schofield make and it didn't sound good. Reaching the bed, he could see immediately that his skin was flushed red and the sheets twisted around him were damp with cold sweat. He hit the nurse call button without even thinking and only minutes later, the soft sounds of muffled shoes padded into the room.  
"He's feverish," Buck said urgently.

It took her several further minutes to ascertain with the aid of a fancy looking machine what Buck could have told her with a single hand.  
The boy was dangerously hot.

For a little while longer, the room was suddenly busy with doctors and nurses checking dressings to work out where the infection was coming from – a deep puncture wound on his chest, they eventually decided - and prescribing intravenous antibiotics and cool flannels.

Finally, Book was left alone with the sick marine and another bag of fluid disappearing into his other arm.

"That's quite a collection you're building there kiddo," Book said teasingly before suddenly becoming stern. "But if you didn't like my book, you could've just said so."

And settling himself back in what he was now thinking of as his chair, he waited.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **This chapter starts to jump POV's, just letting you know.

Chapter 3

As it transpired, he didn't have long to wait. For the better part of the next hour, Schofield continued to sleep peacefully and Buck went back to scribbling in his notebook. The sunlight streamed in through the window under which he sat, warming the room until it felt like a pleasant bath enveloping them and Book felt his eyelids grow heavy.

Surely it couldn't hurt if he closed them for just a few minutes.

Several hours later, the sun was sinking, now bathing the room in the red light of early evening and Book's sleep was disturbed by the sound of something falling to the floor. He woke with a jolt and reached instinctively for his precious notebook but found it on his lap, exactly where he had left it. He only had to cast his eyes around the room to discover the culprit.  
The small flannel towel that had been resting on the boy's forehead, trying to bring his fever down, was now on the floor.

Buck stretched his legs out and reached down for it. He had intended to put it back from where it had fallen off but he found it warm and stiffened with sweat. That couldn't be helping with the fever at all, he reasoned. So instead, he let himself into the surprisingly spacious adjoining bathroom – designed to accommodate a wheelchair – and rinsed it out in the sink. Soaking it in cold water again, he returned it gently to Schofield's forehead, which he was glad to feel, was much cooler. The earlier warmth had gone with the descent of the sun and with it too, it seemed, had gone the boy's undisturbed rest. He tossed and turned as much as he could in the narrow bed and murmured unintelligible words in a low moan.

It was hard to be sure without the tell-tale flickering's of eyes under eyelids but Book thought he might have been dreaming.

Carefully, trying not to scrape it noisily across the floor, Book dragged his chair across the room and sat himself beside the bed. Laying one hand gently on Schofield's exposed arm, he rubbed his thumb across it in a soothing circular motion, hushing him. If parenthood had taught him nothing else, Buck Riley knew how to banish a nightmare.  
Again, he couldn't be sure but given recent events, it seemed unlikely that the boy's dreams were pleasant.

Abruptly, all sound ceased and Schofield's muscles tensed, still beneath his fingers.  
He was awake.

For Schofield, it was like waking from one nightmare into another.

He had dreamt of pain and the noise of explosions, gunshots, wounded men's screams and endless rolling pain but somewhere over the top of it was a vague kindly voice he could only just make out.  
And now he woke to blissful silence but impenetrable darkness.

It was disorienting, frightening, and he felt like he was drowning in it.

Shane tried to open his eyes but found them weighed down with something soft he couldn't identify. Something he was sure hadn't been there in his cupboard. He couldn't work out where he was now and why they had decided to move him. He was lost without a landmark in this sea of inky blackness. He didn't dare move for fear of falling off the edge. His breathing sped up until even he could hear it, ragged and shallow.

Out of nowhere, he registered a touch on his arm.

That worked, he could work with that. That little sensation was enough to orient himself in the utterly dark surroundings. The touch was on his left arm so if he could just wriggle what ought to be his right arm until it was pressed against his body, he managed to ascertain that he was in fact, lying down on his back. The gentle weight of sheets against what he was slowly becoming aware of as his own body confirmed it.  
And of course, the touch, he wasn't alone.

As though it sensed his sudden panic, a voice cut came out of the darkness.  
"It's okay lieutenant," it said, "you're safe now."

The same voice, he recognised, from his dreams.

'Where am I,' was what he meant to say but when he tried to speak, he found his voice unwilling to cooperate. Whatever he managed to say, the other person must have got the idea because he replied, "You're in John Hoskins Hospital in Maryland."

Maryland. Then he was in America.

His voice was hoarse but this time, at least, the single word he managed was understandable.  
"Who?"

Again, the voice which he decided was definitely a man's and coming from his left side, the same side as the touch, replied.  
"My name's Buck," it said, "I'm a marine too. Now don't panic but I'm going to let go of your arm and go find a nurse. They'll be glad to know you're awake. You've had us all very worried."

The touch retracted and Shane immediately felt lost in the darkness again, as though his anchor had been removed. He flung out an arm in the vain hope of catching the marine called Buck's arm but based on the muffled _oomph _that issued from where he ought to have been standing, it sounded like he had hit him in the stomach instead.

"Don't," he managed to croak out.

"Okay," Buck said and it sounded like he was smiling, "I won't go anywhere. I'm just going to hit the call button and I'll be right here the whole time."

Schofield heard the scuffle of a chair against a hard floor before the touch on his now sore arm returned. As awareness of his body returned, so too had the pain which flooded it. It coiled around his limbs and settled in his chest like a dead, heavy weight. Lifting his chest with every breath felt like such an effort as the pain flared up like bands constricting him before settling back to a throbbing ache that thrummed through his whole body. It was sharp at some points - the crook of his elbow, his left shoulder- like little pricks of needles and knives and the occasional hot poker.

He tried to remember how it was he had received all these injuries.

His memories were still pretty fuzzy but he thought he could recall a failed warning light and an explosion on what should have been a routine run. From there, it was only pain and hunger and hunger and pain. There was one sharp memory, perfectly recalled, but he pushed that away. He didn't want to remember that just yet. Even though he knew he should have tried to stay awake, his head was so heavy and he couldn't struggle against the warm weight covering his eyes.  
Shane Schofield fell back into oblivion.

Not for the first time and certainly not for the last, Buck Riley cursed the bandages that obscured Schofield's eyes. He couldn't tell if the boy was simply quiet by nature or by injury – by the sound of it, his voice wasn't quite up to scratch yet – or if he had in fact fallen asleep again. The way his breathing had evened out seemed to suggest the latter option and though Book certainly didn't begrudge him the sleep after all he had been through, the nurse had just popped her head in to say that the eye doctor was on his way up now that their patient was awake.  
Only he wasn't anymore and Book didn't want to wake him up.

He needn't have worried however as the doctor didn't show up for over an hour at which point the boy was in the grips of another nightmare and Buck had no hesitations whatsoever about tearing him from it. His mumblings as he thrashed about in the bed were becoming increasingly clearer and Book found he could make out distinct words amidst the moans.

"No," "Stop," "hurts."

Buck was more than glad to be able to make them stop at least in dreams though it was slightly disconcerting when his muscles tensed and he pitched bolt upright, breathing heavily, but without the tell-tale flung open eyes that usually signalled a return to consciousness. For a moment, he sat dead still as though trying to recollect where he was but then he slumped back against the pillow.  
Book kept a firm hand on his shoulder the whole time.

"You still there?" Schofield asked and Buck was glad to hear his voice sounded stronger.

"Course," he replied simply. "Doctor's here to see you. Shall I let him in?"

The injured marine paused to consider but eventually nodded and said, "better get it over with, hear the worst."

Book squeezed his shoulder gently, knowing it was the injured one, before leaving his side to open the door. In the few seconds it took for him to cross the room, the boy looked lost again without his anchor. Buck couldn't imagine what it must feel like to be deprived of one of your senses, especially one you relied on so much. To have seen the world and then to wake up in the strange world of dark, it hardly bore thinking about.

Whilst he let himself back into his chair in the corner, the doctor stood at the foot of the bed and the accompanying nurse bustled around, checking his bandages and temperature. When she was satisfied, she gave the doctor a curt nod and he cleared his throat.

"Shane," he began, "my name is Dr. Klein and I'm the eye surgeon in charge of your case."

Although Buck had picked up his notebook again, he was listening intently to every word the doctor said – as he explained the nature and extent of the damage; and what they had been able to do so far to try and fix it. He was lucky, he said. The damage apparently, was fairly shallow. The majority of his eye and optic nerve was untouched. He was never in danger of losing his eyes.

_Just his sight,_ Book thought but he didn't say anything.

They had been able to fuse the wounds together, the doctor continued in his flat monotonous voice as though he was simply commenting on the weather. Although Schofield clearly couldn't see him, he was staring straight at the centre of the doctor's starched white coat, taking in every word.  
"But will I see again?" He interrupted.

The doctor looked startled for a moment but simply cleared his throat and continued on as though he hadn't spoken.  
"The fusion was stage one," he said. "When we remove the bandages in several weeks' time, we will be able to evaluate how effective the fusion was and if it is successful, then we may be able to restore full or partial sight to you in the second stage laser procedure. We won't know for sure until the bandages are removed."

When Schofield nodded his understanding, the doctor left, taking the nurse with him. Book was unsure of what to say so instead, he opened his notebook and started to write, leaving the boy to his thoughts.

Book had heard it said that when you lose one sense the others begin to compensate for it. Perhaps it was the soft scratch of the pen on paper but barely a moment passed before Schofield looked up, not quite straight at him but certainly in his general direction and asked, "What are you doing?"

"I'm writing," he replied simply.

"What are you writing?" Schofield asked, not to be put off.

"A book," Book sighed.

He expected the kid to laugh like everyone else did when they discovered his hobby. What on earth could a marine possibly want to write about? Actually, how many marines could even write for that matter?

But he didn't.  
Instead, he cocked his head to one side inquisitively.  
"What's it about?"

"It's a murder mystery," Book replied, "set in the Protectorate period in 17th century England."

Again, he expected the boy to laugh but he seemed genuinely interested and Book seized on the topic. He happily explained the decline in royal power following the Tudor succession and the uprising of the common people who managed to overthrow the monarchy and declare England a republic. It was a dark period in English history, he explained, a time of anarchy and chaos.  
"And out of it all," he said, "A man by the name of Oliver Cromwell installed himself as Lord Protector in the place of a king."

Schofield listened patiently but Book sensed there was something else he wanted to say. Falling silent himself, he waited for the younger man to open up.  
"I thought I heard your voice in my dreams," he said eventually.

"I was reading to you," Buck replied, "thought it might help."

Of all the things he had said so far, Riley thought this was by far the stupidest but when he looked up at Schofield again, for the first time, he saw a small but genuine smile spread across the lower part of his face not covered by bandages.

"My Nana used to read to me every night when I was small," he said softly, looking – without seeing – at his lap.

Which was when it hit Buck. Of course the kid would have family too but where were they? Why weren't they here?


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I work in a hospital and I can tell you for real that they are the most multicultural places you've ever set foot in. The nurses are always the most incredibly interesting mixture and truly, special people. Seriously, it takes an incredible person to clean up poo and vomit and smelly bandages all day with a smile.

And we have one more reference to my favourite book in this chapter. It's long and obvious. Now if you don't get it, I will be disappointed.

Chapter 4

As the days turned into weeks, Buck Riley continued to visit Shane in the hospital daily and he began to fall into the routine of it. The little Philipino woman who brought around tea and cake had finally realised Book didn't like tea and now had a strong cup of coffee waiting for him. She always saved a chocolate cake for the handsome young marine she had become rather fond of and Schofield always smiled shyly and thanked her sincerely.

Book was familiar with all the different nurses now.

There was Marilee from the Deep South with her two little boys she was working to put through college. She was black as night with a smile a mile wide and despite her kindliness and easy reassuring laugh that she had seen it all before, Schofield still blushed something terrible when she helped him in and out of the shower in the morning.

In the afternoon, there was the bustle of the older and more severe matron in charge who accompanied the doctor on his brief rounds, as well as the young physiotherapist who helped Shane move down the corridor to sit in the sunny lounge room for a little while and told him off for not doing his deep breathing exercises. With the aid of a few guiderails and Book's always available arm, Schofield was actually getting remarkably good at getting himself around the place.  
So much so that the young physio had to warn him not to run away now.

And then there was Kelly, recently emigrated from Ireland who always worked the night shift because she didn't want to sleep alone.

But most remarkable at all was how Shane could tell each person apart by the tread of their feet and the smell of their perfume before they'd even spoken. His ears would prick up and he was becoming uncannily good at following people around the room with his sightless, covered eyes. Slowly, the machines were unhooked and the lines removed one by one until he was left with only the single cannula into his hand. He was healing and still, no one had come to visit him other than Book.  
If it upset Schofield, he didn't show it.

The morning of the great reveal came, the bandages were removed and Schofield's eyes declared suitably well healed to attempt the laser procedure on that might be able to restore his sight. Nobody thought to mention to Schofield himself the scarring on the skin that was revealed without the bandages. He didn't need to know just yet, they reasoned. There would be time later and he should be allowed this moment to be happy and hopeful that he might yet see again. Then, he could see them for himself.

It should have been a happy day and so Buck ducked down to visit the hospital gift store to pick up something to celebrate with. Just as he had hoped, they had a large tray full of shabby second hand paperbacks, 3 for $5. He picked out the three he wanted and whistled all the way back up to Schofield's room. As he walked in, he waved the first book in the air, knowing that even if he couldn't see it, Shane would hear the rustle of the pages.

"Thought we might give this a try," he said cheerily but then stopped dead.

There was another person in the room.

He was tall and powerfully built, wearing a khaki marine service uniform and a look of deep regret on his face. One hand rested on Schofield's shoulder in what Book supposed was supposed to be a comforting way. For his part, Schofield just sat slumped against the bed looking more crestfallen then Book had yet seen him.

The man gave Schofield's shoulder one last swift squeeze before saying, "I'm sorry Shane," and swept from the room with a curt nod to Buck on his way past.

Book couldn't help it, he had to follow him. Maybe this man could give him some answers about Schofield. Despite the fact that Book had discovered that Shane was a well and truly likeable young man - quiet at the best of times but always polite and always ready to give something a go, the nurses loved him and he had certainly grown on Book - he remained an enigma. But here was someone who actually knew him, who might be able to answer some of the questions that Shane himself wouldn't.

"Oi," Buck called down the corridor at the retreating marine coat, "wait up."

To his surprise, the man stopped and turned around. Jogging down the corridor, Book held out his hand and the man shook it firmly. Book stopped still as his own brown eyes met piercingly sharp blue ones and he realised that he had met this man once before. On the briefing deck of the U.S.S. Wasp, right before he was sent in to Bosnia to go and retrieve the very same young man in the bed a few doors down.  
This was Jack Walsh.

Even away from his ship, Walsh exuded intelligence and authority, not earned by virtue of the bars on his shoulder – everyone knew Jack Walsh had a healthy disdain for that sort of authority – but in the way he carried himself and by virtue of his reputation. Here was a commander who demanded nothing less than the very best from his men – and whose men were happy to give it.  
Buck could see why Walsh's soldiers loved serving under him.

He also knew that Walsh had put his career on the line to get Schofield out of Bosnia and he wanted to know why.

"Sir," he sat, snapping a brief salute.

"At ease, soldier," Walsh replied and Book was surprised.  
He sounded weary, defeated.

Although there were a couple of chairs nearby – actually, chairs were scattered at even lengths along the hospital corridors for easy access in the event of a faint – Walsh didn't motion for them to sit down. He didn't even smile.

"You knew the lieutenant well?" He ventured.

Inwardly, he immediately winced at his thoughtless use of the past tense. The kid was still alive for Christ sake's.

Book could've sworn Walsh sighed.

"As well as anyone," he replied. "He kept mostly to himself in his off hours but he was friendly and popular all the same. He's a dab hand at karaoke apparently. He and a few of the other lads used to use their shore time actually seeing the world and not just its varied wildlife."

Having never spent an extended period of time on a ship, Book was slightly confused.

"Hookers," Walsh clarified with a grunt somewhere between disapproval and amusement. "Well, if they will try and send young men to sea but that's beside the point. More than a good kid, he was a damn good pilot. Instinctive. He flew like the plane was an extension of his body."

For the first time, Book saw Walsh crack a smile.

"He flew some crazy shit" he reminisced, "and somehow always got out of it okay. You can't buy that sort of courage."

Of course, now the past tense was intentional because Riley, Walsh and even Schofield himself knew he would never fly again, whether he would see again or no.

The brief smile was gone and Walsh looked older than ever.

"Now if you don't mind," a hint of bitterness crept into Walsh's voice, "It's been a tough day. I've had to ground my best pilot permanently. I'm going to go home and drink away my sorrows. I only wish Schofield could do the same."

"Wait," Book interrupted. "Doesn't he have family?"

He could've sworn Walsh almost laughed.  
"Of course he's got a family," he said, "and you've heard of them."

Book was momentarily confused when it hit him.  
_Schofield._  
As in, the famous Michael Schofield.  
Hell, he'd even seen the kid's middle name on the mountains of hospital paperwork.

Walsh watched comprehension dawn on Book's face before continuing, "His grandparents live way out in the middle of mountain country. There's no way they'll make it here and for all I know, his parents could be dead. He never got letters or phone calls from them that's for sure."

"Friends then?" Book insisted, knowing he was pushing his luck.

Walsh had already turned to leave but he stopped still abruptly. When he turned back to face Buck, his face was blazing hard.  
"Sure he had friends but pilots are a superstitious bunch and there's nothing unluckier than a downed plane. His old life is over and the sooner he gets used to that, the better."

Walsh swung his peaked cap back onto his head and with a curt nod, Book watched him walk out of the hospital.

As he let himself back into Schofield's room, Book saw the light catch on something small and silver he was turning over in his hand despondently.

It was his wings.

Even though he couldn't see it, Schofield's fingers traced every inch of the well-known insignia.

Book couldn't think of anything to say to Shane as his world crumbled around him. Everything he had ever worked for had been taken from him in the blink of an eye. No words he could think of could offer any degree of comfort, but he knew someone else's that just might work.

Picking up the third of the well-thumbed books, he flipped through towards the end until he found. Clearing his throat quickly, he began to read.

"_There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach."_

When he set the book down again, he looked up to find Shane staring at him with sightless eyes.

"Now, I'm a damn sight less eloquent than that," Book said sternly, "But it seems to me as if you've got a choice to make and it isn't an easy one but I reckon you've got the strength to make it. It's choices like these that shape our lives proper. You're lucky to be alive, lucky to be even able to make a choice and it's that that'll make all the difference. So you can sit here and wallow in the blackness or you can take what's left of your life and make something new of it. You never know, it might turn out to be the best thing you've ever done."

Book thought he might just have seen the edge of Schofield's lips quirk into something resembling a smile.

When he spoke, it was soft.  
"Can we start that book from the beginning?"

Buck just smiled.  
"Course."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Schofield's surgery was scheduled for the very next day at 8:00 am and Book promised he'd be there to see him off, which was why he was pulling into the hospital car park at an ungodly hour of the morning. On the way there, Buck had wondered what was going through the young lieutenant's head. So much, it seemed, rested on the outcome of this procedure.

If it was him, Book knew he wouldn't have slept at all last night – too busy worrying, he would have tried to write but it almost certainly would have been an unproductive waste of his time – but maybe Shane was the sort that could force himself to rest no matter the circumstances if it passed the time. There wasn't, after all, much else he could do.

So when he entered the sparse hospital room – with a short, sharp knock, as always – he was met with a surprise.

Schofield was most certainly awake.

In fact, he was sitting up in his bed and staring at the ceiling with his face screwed up in a look of intense concentration. Lying in front of him, open on the bed, was a book with thick, stiff pages and as far as Buck could tell, no writing. Shane's fingers traced slowly over barely distinguishable bumps and ridges.

"What on earth are you doing?" Riley asked, settling himself down in the chair under the window.

He could've sworn Schofield gave a little start as his head jerked away from the ceiling and instead faced somewhere just over Buck's right shoulder. He'd been concentrating so hard that he hadn't even heard Buck arrive.

"Trying to teach myself braille," he replied.

Book snorted.  
"Bit late for that, isn't it?"

Schofield shrugged.  
"Just in case."

It was the first time he'd actually mentioned any lingering nerves or doubts he might have been having over the possible outcome of the surgery. After Walsh's visit and Buck's outburst, they had spent the rest of the previous day reading and quietly discussing inane topics like the Super bowl.

Whilst Buck – having grown up in Texas – could proudly claim the Dallas Cowboy's as his home team, Shane reluctantly had to admit he was a New York Jet's fan.

Buck had laughed.

Personally, Book took this small admonition of fear as a better indicator of their growing friendship than the admission that he supported what was widely regarded as one of the worst teams in the league.

And so, when the nurses came to prep Schofield for surgery, they found the pair of them sitting with their heads bowed in front of the book. It had been a long time since Buck Riley had taught someone how to read but he still got the same sense of pride when Shane started to recognise letters, began to form words and even small sentences.

With practice, he would get better but Buck hoped he never had reason to.

With practiced ease, the nurses bustled in and whipped Shane out of his clothes. Despite their many offers of help, he insisted on tying the flimsy blue hospital gown himself. It was far too large on him and gaped at the back.

When Marilee demanded he lose his underwear, Schofield demanded another gown and made damn sure his 'skinny white ass' – as she said teasingly through her thick southern accent - wasn't showing before they wheeled him away.

"See you later," Shane said seriously, holding out a hand which Book shook solemnly.

"You'll be fine, kiddo," he replied and just before the orderlies pushed the bed passed him and out the door, Book ruffled Shane's short spikey hair.

He knew on one level, the affectionate gesture annoyed the shit out of Schofield but just this once, he tolerated it with a laugh and even a small smile.

"I'll see you later," he repeated and there was no way Buck could have missed the significance of the words.

Buck Riley had always been a particularly patient man and yet he found himself inexplicably jumpy for the nearly four hours that Schofield spent in theatre. After downing a grand total of seven cups of coffee in quick succession, which certainly did not help his jumpiness, he called Paula and his beautiful wife joined him at the hospital. The second she entered the small, sparse room however, she simply let out an exasperated 'humph' and dragged him down to the small park next door. Despite the large sign hanging over one of the park benches that proclaimed in bold letters,

NO SMOKING

Paula pushed a cigarette into his hand.  
"Just the one," she said with a knowing look.

Book hadn't smoked in years – not since the scientists and Paula had discovered they were bad for you – but for crying out loud, he was a child of the sixties, back when cigarette smoke was like mother's milk.

And of all the things he had tried in his teenage years, cigarettes, he knew, were probably the least likely to kill him.

Lighting one was like riding a bike. Once you learnt, you'd never forget but unlike riding a bike, this was one skill he didn't want to teach his son. The lighter flickered and the end of the thin rod caught, flaring orange suddenly. As Book inhaled and the familiar bitter smoke filled his lungs, he felt his mind clear and his body relax. This park, he decided, was really a very lovely place and perfectly situated next to the hospital. They really should take advantage of it more; the fresh wholesome air would do the patients a world of good. When the results of Shane's surgery came through, he would bring him here no matter the outcome. For if the surgery was unsuccessful, then surely the birds' song, the melodic trickle of water from the small fountain and the rustle of the wind through the trees – not even mentioning the smell of fresh mown grass and just opened flower buds; or the feel of grass beneath his feet – would remind him of how much he still had left.

And if the surgery was successful, then the green of the grass and the blue of the sky, the miscellany of the flowers and even the dirty grey of the fountain with highlights of pigeon poo would never have looked better.

By the time the cigarette was burnt to his fingertips, savouring every last breath, Buck supposed that Schofield must have been nearly out of surgery and he wanted to be there waiting when he returned.

Because it wasn't like anyone else would.

In the end, he only just made it back there before Shane himself did and for all his desire to be there to support the kid, it was almost entirely wasted for Shane had absolutely no clue. He was practically still unconscious by virtue of the anaesthetic when the familiar rattle of the bed's wheels rang through the halls.

The bandages are back and Book can't help but feel relieved. If it's disconcerting to have half of the boy's face hidden, it's nothing compared to the shock of those scars. He'd become rather good at suppressing the inevitable wince that occurred every time Shane turned his head, looked at him, because he knew that Schofield would hear him and as of yet, he didn't know about them.

Buck let Shane sleep and though he tossed and turned and mumbled incoherently, this time it was the deep and thankfully peaceful sleep of the drug induced.  
Whatever dreams Shane was lost in; they were surely a damn sight more pleasant – and probably far weirder, if the odd snatch of word that Book caught was anything to go by. He could have sworn he heard "elephant" followed not too far behind by "clouds" – than any he'd had before.

The doctor dropped in again briefly to impart the necessary details of the operation to Buck in his short, staccato manner.

As far as they could tell, the operation went well. The wounds were clean and healing nicely. The bandages would be removed in 24 hours and until then, there would be no indication of whether or not the operation had been successful.

And he left again, leaving Book to relay the details to Schofield when he came down from the ceiling, floating with the elephants.

Buck Riley had always been a patient man but the next twenty-four hours were shaping up to be some of the longest of his life.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **I really cannot say thank you enough to the people who reviewed.

After all, anyone who is a writer would know the truth in the statement "never underestimate the power of encouragement!"

Also, I've said it before but in a different story. Yes, boys really do keep growing until they're 23 at least and can even keep on going until about 25.  
It's not fair.

I'm not really sure where this story is going… originally it was meant to be a one shot that somehow turned into maybe a short four chapter thing. I reckon there's probably only one more chapter in it but hey, who knows what'll happen!

Chapter 6

Buck Riley had paced the floor of the small room and when that was no longer big enough, he paced up and down the corridor outside the room – hoping for a glimpse of a familiar white coat.  
He had drunk an even more exorbitant amount of coffee and subsequently needed to go to the bathroom rather badly. He swore he'd never washed his hands so slowly before in his life in the hope that by the time he got back, the doctor would be there and Shane would be looking at him and actually seeing him.

He followed the whole procedure listed on the small laminated sign hanging in front of the sink.  
Soap and under his fingernails and across the knuckles and between his fingers and up to his elbows.  
Twice.

And yet still, there was no doctor.

He tried to write.

He nearly threw his pen out the window.

And yet Shane somehow managed to whittle away the entire evening and most of the next morning sound asleep.

Bastard.

In the end, Book decided to wake Schofield up. He was after all, still an injured young man and he needed to keep his strength up if he wanted to get better. Hell, the kid was probably still growing, he reasoned, and no man of his age should miss three meals in a row!  
At least then he would have someone else to worry with.

As he should have anticipated, Shane struggled to eat much of the lukewarm breakfast that had been left for him. Book didn't blame him really. Hospital food was poor in the best of circumstances and lukewarm hospital food was even worse but having lived for the past six months on MRE's and the on-board ship's mess, Schofield wasn't given to complaining.  
All the same, he still threw up most of what he managed to force down.

He attributed his queasy stomach to the lingering effects of the anaesthetic.  
Book put it down to nerves.

Once he'd decided that the rest of his breakfast was going to stay put, Shane abandoned the safety of his little green basin and took up Book's well-worn tread, pacing the floor.

"It won't help," Book said as he settled himself back into his chair under the window. "Besides, you're going to walk into something in a minute."

"Am not," Schofield bit back, "Not unless you push something in front of me."

Even though Shane couldn't see his raised eyebrow, Buck was sure he caught the tongue-in-cheek tone in his voice.  
"I'm thinking about it."

And just to make his point clear, Book nudged the portable tray table beside the bed. Its wheels squeaked and Shane jumped.

Book roared with laughter at the look on his face and when Shane turned to face him, his expression was caught somewhere between the intended growl and involuntary laughter.  
"If I could see you," he retorted deadpan, "I'd hit you."

"Well, let's see what we can do about that," said another voice from the door and this time, it was both their turn to jump.

The doctor leaning casually against the doorframe with his arms folded over his chest was not the doctor they had seen before. This one wore his lab coat – still while though less obviously starched – open over a pair of jeans and a smile to boost. He was older, his sandy brown hair was streaked liberally with grey, and he exuded the sort of calming friendliness that came from years of working at perfecting bedside manner.  
Book was instantly glad it was this man and not the previous one that was here for this moment.

The doctor let himself into the room and walked over to Schofield, who had stopped mid pace. Gently, he placed one hand on Schofield's shoulder to let him know where he was – not that it was really necessary, Shane's keen hearing had followed his every footstep – and guided him back to sit on the side of the bed.

"You probably don't remember me," the doctor said with a smile, "I'm Dr Field, the anaesthetist who put you to sleep yesterday. Now, can you cover your eyes tight with your hands?"

As Shane plastered his hands across the bandages covering his eyes, Field withdrew a small but sharp looking pair of scissors from his belt and began to snip away at the strips holding the bandages on.

"Keep your hands there," he directed as he slid the bandages out from underneath them. Underneath the bandages, Book could see white patches of soft cotton covering both Schofield's eyes.  
The tips of the scars protruded from underneath them.

The doctor lifted the edges of the patches, revealing a small black cross in the corner of each of his eyes.

"Keep very still," he said as he worked. "The human body truly is amazing. The best defence we could give you against infection was already in place – your eyelids. Once the cuts to the skin had healed, we carefully sewed them shut to allow the eyes to heal better. I'm just removing the stiches now and then we'll have a go at opening your eyes. I've got to warn you though, there's a chance that the laser fusion didn't work. In that case there's nothing else we can do and you'll probably be blind the rest of your life. If your vision has only been partially restored then there may be opportunities later down the track to improve it with further surgery but best case scenario is that you're eyes are completely healed. If that's the case, then when you open them, other than a little photophobia which is normal after an extended period of time in the dark, you should be able to see exactly as you did before. Whatever happens, we'll know immediately."

He pulled the cotton patches off from under Shane's hands.

"Spread your fingers but keep your eyes shut," the doctor directed, "allow them to adjust to the light slowly."

Shane spread his fingers and the insides of his eyelids glowed red.

"Does it hurt?" The doctor asked.

"Yeah," Schofield replied but the pain had never felt so good.

"That's good," said the doctor reassuringly, "Now open your eyes slowly and remove your hands."

Schofield did and it was agony. Despite the fact that they'd pulled the curtains and turned the light off, the shadows of the room felt like staring at the blazing sun but he didn't mind.

He could see.

Slowly, the room came into focus. A person sat beside the window. His mostly untouched breakfast looked just as unappetising as it had tasted. The light glinted off the thin wire frames of the doctor's glasses. He was smiling.  
And in front of his face, ten fuzzy flesh-coloured blobs took the shape of fingers.  
He could see his own fingerprints.

"Ten, right?" Shane said with a crooked smile.

"Right," Dr. Field replied.

Book could have jumped and danced for joy but given the narrow confines of the room, he managed to restrain himself. After a few more tests to determine that Schofield's peripheral vision and ability to track objects hadn't been damaged, the doctor pronounced his eyes absolutely perfect and Book thought that was the last of it.

But no.

Instead, the doctor pulled the other chair over and under him to sit, facing Schofield.  
He suddenly looked serious again.  
"Shall we talk about getting you in to see a plastic surgeon?"

Book watched as the expression on Schofield's face changed from inexpressible joy to confusion.  
"What?"

In response, the doctor offered him a hand held mirror.

Schofield took it and for the first time, saw the scars that marred his features.

For a second – and only a very brief one at that – he thought he might have preferred it blind.

Nothing, nothing, could have prepared him for the shock of seeing his own face so shockingly transformed. The skin around his eyes was still red and swollen. The scars themselves were thick and ropey, slicing down each of his eyes in dark red-purple chains like the marks of the devil himself.

True to the doctor's word, his eyes were perfect. There wasn't even a blemish on the whites and the irises were as deep a dark blue as they had ever been, but he hardly recognise the face that they looked back at him from.

"Can you fix them?" He asked as he thrust the mirror back at the doctor.

"No," the doctor said with simple honesty, "But with laser treatment, you might be able to lighten them."

Shane shook his head, staring at his lap. The doctor went to grip his shoulder in a consoling way but he shook it off.

Schofield forced himself to look up, to meet the doctor's eyes. Neither one flinched.  
"Thank you," he said.

He really did mean it. He had a lot to be thankful for and he'd be damned if he was going to let a pair of scars get him down.

But he still needed some time to adjust.

The doctor turned to leave, recognising the dismissal, and Shane went back to staring at his hands. He intertwined his fingers and watched the way the muscles moved. Clenching them into fists, he saw his knuckles stick out. He could even see the veins beneath the skin.  
His hands were scarred too.

Abruptly, he looked up at the man who had been sitting quietly in the corner. Waiting for him to speak, knowing he would when he needed to.  
"You don't look like I thought you would," he said.

Book just quirked an eyebrow.  
"And what did you think I'd look like?"

Even though Shane already knew who the man was, he could have placed the voice anywhere.  
"Dunno," he replied. "Older maybe, more like my grandpa, less like a boxer."

He almost laughed.  
For that matter, so did Shane.

"Well I am a marine," Book replied, "It tends to have unfortunate consequences for your appearance."

"I learnt that one the hard way," Schofield said, gesturing with two fingers at his eyes. "I guess you saw them before, right, when the bandages were off?"

Book just nodded.  
Shane appreciated that he could see it.

"They're a lot better than they were before," Book said slowly, after a long moment. "Before they were bright red, at least they're sort of purple now and they'll probably fade more."

"Always look on the bright side, eh?" Schofield replied.

Book whistled the rest of the song off key and Shane laughed properly for the first time since the bandages had come off.

That very same afternoon, in another first, Shane Schofield's small sparse hospital room was inundated with visitors.

There was a photographer – who quickly realised his services wouldn't be needed – and a reporter – who struggled to get more than a few words out of Shane at any given question. The end transcript recorded only sixteen words, of which seven were 'no,' three were 'yes' and five were 'sir.' The final word adjoined a previous 'no' to complete the expression 'no shit.' All in all, they decided, an interview that would never be printed. There was a handful of general's aides buzzing around, a pair of sullen looking sergeant MP's and in the centre of it all was Brigadier General Norman B. Mclean.

And Book of course.

The entourage had appeared without warning. They swarmed into the room, disturbing Book's afternoon coffee and cake. The Brigadier General was loud and overweight with a cherry red nose that suggested a hearty enjoyment of scotch but Schofield took an instant liking to him. Whereas the aides were jittery around him, not quite knowing where to look and the bloody photographer took one look at his face and pronounced him "unpresentable," Mclean strode in brashly, right beside Schofield's bed and looked him in the eye when he spoke.

"Christ almighty," Mclean said with a guffaw, peering in close to examine the fresh scars, "I'm'a put you in my cornfield's back home to scare away them damn crows. You got a callsign, boy?"

"No sir," Schofield replied.

He supposed it was technically true. He had one once for sure. It had been stamped across the side of his plane – an honour for such a young pilot – but that plane was beyond salvageable now and he wasn't a pilot anymore.  
His old identity had died in that isolated Bosnian farmhouse.

"Well you do now," the general replied, "Scarecrow."

_Scarecrow._

He tried the name on for size and found that it fit.

Shane Schofield sat up a little straighter.  
"Thank you sir," he nodded.

There were the usual platitudes about bravery and the gratitude of the nation as Mclean presented him with a handful of medals – including the renowned Purple Heart that matched the colour of the scars for which he had earned it perfectly – for his courageous conduct at the risk of his own life.

Schofield didn't know about that. The way he saw it, all he had managed to do was get himself shot out of the sky, destroying his multimillion dollar bird in the process, and get captured.  
His only real achievement was surviving and that, he reasoned, had an awful lot more to do with Jack Walsh and the marines who had gone in for him than any particular prowess on his part.

If it was up to him, he'd probably still be rotting in that cupboard.

Then they were gone as quickly as they'd arrived.

Afterwards, Shane looked different in a way Book couldn't quite place.  
Thoughtful.

When he spoke up, his voice was strong.  
"Thanks for everything Buck," he said, "But would you mind giving me a couple of hours alone, I need some time to think."

Book was surprised but he knew he shouldn't be. After all, like a child learning to walk, there comes a time when they no longer need to hold your hand.  
And though that moment was greatly anticipated and joyous, it always came with a little hint of pain and regret for what was lost.

"No problem," he said as he got to his feet.

He paused at the doorframe.  
"I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Course," Shane replied with that crooked grin that Book saw for the first time, truly reach his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **You'll have to forgive my rudimentary knowledge of American geography. My understanding is that John Hopkins University Hospital is in Maryland whilst the Basic School (where Marine officers receive their basic training after earning their commission) is in Virginia. Now Virginia and Maryland border each other and Maryland in particular looks like a pretty small state. As an Australian – which most Matthew Reilly readers are – you get pretty used to huge distances. Hell, you drive two hours out of Sydney CBD in any direction and you're still in suburbs! So it looked to me like driving from Maryland to Virginia was probably equidistant to driving from Sydney to Newcastle, a very do-able drive. Perhaps though, one the average American, for whom everything is much closer, wouldn't attempt. If I have any American readers who would like to correct me, please do so!

Also, when a soldier receives a medal or award of some sort, they obviously can't wear that all the time. What they do get as well then, is a little embroidered "ribbon" sown onto their uniform and the pattern of that ribbon corresponds with the award. So when you see those colourful lines sown onto a soldiers more formal uniforms, what that actually is, is essentially a record of their career and the awards they've earned for it.

This is the last chapter, by the way. Thank you majorly to everyone who reviewed. Also, if you're an artist, especially if you draw Matthew Reilly fanart, please check out my profile, I'm rather hoping someone will volunteer to draw me some pictures to use as covers for my stories seeing as I am singularly lacking in that department. All credit, will of course, go to those artists. Let me know if you're interested!

Chapter 7

The next time Buck Riley saw Shane 'Scarecrow' Schofield, he was shocked.

Having been declared fully healed and ready for discharge, Shane had cleared his room in preparation to go home before Book even turned up to pick him up. It hadn't really taken much effort. Despite having spent nearly a month in the same small room, it was still as sparse as the day he had entered it. Schofield's few meagre possessions – his wings, the paperback's Book had given him, the shiny medals still in their boxes and a handful of drugs and spare dressings for his few remaining wounds were all already packed in a small rucksack, sitting at the end of the bed when Book arrived.

Shane himself emerged a second later from the bathroom, still towelling off damp spikes of black hair. From somewhere – Book supposed that being a military hospital, they probably had spares lying around for exactly this purpose – he had managed to obtain a khaki marine day uniform. The uniform changed him. He walked taller and there was a confidence in his stride that hadn't been there before.

"So," Book said, "You ready to go?"

Shane just nodded as he swung the rucksack over the once dislocated shoulder. It still twinged a little but if he stretched it out, it would be fine.

"So where's home then?" Book asked, genuinely curious.

"Wyoming," Schofield replied.

"I ain't driving to Wyoming," Book retorted immediately and a grin cracked Schofield's face but when he spoke, it was serious.

"Book," he said with the tone of one who had rehearsed this little speech in his head a fair few times. "I really can't thank you enough for everything you've done. You literally saved my life and this past month, you've been the single bright point in the darkness that's kept me sane. Last night, I made a decision. I want to be like that. I am lucky to be alive and I'll be damned if I'm going to waste that. Marines don't give up when the going gets tough, so if you could take me to the personnel office here, I'm ready to start getting my life back on track and making something new of myself. After all, they say that even though the door might've closed, there's bound to be a window open somewhere."

He finished with a shrug and Book gripped his shoulder proudly.

"There's something special about you, you know," Buck said and Schofield snuffed a laugh. "Shall we go?"

Somehow, over the ensuing months, Shane Schofield became an integral part of Buck Riley's life – slipping in as if he'd always been there - and if Buck had known he would have only a little more than a year in which to get to know the young man, he would have held onto each passing moment that little bit tighter.

It didn't matter that Buck Riley never got to see the majority of Schofield's great achievements and the man he would become.  
It never mattered because in his heart, Book always knew that Shane was destined for something great.

From the moment he first slipped on a pair of reflective silver sunglasses and walked into the personnel offices of the United States Marine Corp with a straight back and his head held high.  
He exchanged his flight status lieutenant commander's gold oak leaf insignia for the single gold bar of a lieutenant second class line animal without complaint, his mouth set in a steel line of determination.

Barely three days later, it was Buck Riley who dropped him at the Basic School in Quantico to begin the six month process of re-training and by the looks of his schedule, it seemed that Schofield had signed himself up for every damn course he could. If nothing else, everyone around him had to admire his sheer stubborn perseverance.  
Shane Schofield, they all learnt, never gave up.  
Never.

That first day, Buck felt like a parent taking his child to school for the first time. The same sense of pride at how much they had grown and anticipation of how much further they would reach, tempered by the desire to hold onto them forever, overwhelmed him again and briefly, he pulled Shane into a gruff one-armed hug, holding him tight around the neck before pushing him off into the crowd of milling young marines.

For a moment, Schofield hovered on the edge of the group, fiddling with his sunglasses. Perhaps the others could sense he was different – he had been here before, young and whole, and was now returning again, broken but determined to rebuild – and they left him alone.  
Until another young man who appeared similar in age to Schofield, excused himself from the conversation he was involved in and make his way over.

"Andy," Book thought he heard him introduce himself as, "Andy Trent."

As he drove away, Book saw Schofield offer his hand. Saw them talking animatedly. He even thought he might have seen Shane pull down the sunglasses just a little to expose the tops of the scars and his bright blue eyes to Andy Trent's enthralled view and he smiled to himself.  
Shane would be just fine.

And only a few days after that, a delivery arrived on his front doorstep.

Not for him though.  
It was for the lovely Paula in gratitude for allowing him to monopolize her husband.

A huge bunch of beautiful tropical flowers.

Courtesy of one Shane Schofield.

Buck remembered the day he graduated from the Basic School for the second time and the day he was awarded for all his hard work with command of his very own recon unit.  
The very first name he asked for was Staff Sergeant Buck Riley, who was of course, proud as a button to serve under the young lieutenant.

He knew that amongst the marines that made up their unit, he was the only one who knew how Schofield had earned the Purple Heart ribbon sewn across his right breast. In fact, most of them had absolutely no idea that Shane Schofield had ever been anything than an earth-bound ground marine, so well did he take to the role. His marines, even those much older than him, held him in the highest regard. Perhaps it was due to his own experiences but as a commander, Schofield looked out for his men in a way that was rare. He threw the same amount of effort and determination into bringing his men home safely as he did everything else and they loved him for it.

Book though he saw a lot of Jack Walsh in him.

Buck remembered the first day Shane had been handed a maghook.  
He had flopped down in the grass beside Riley, held up the shiny silver device and proclaimed with simple admiration, "I think I like this thing."

Deprived of eye contact through the now ever present sunglasses, Book learnt to interpret the various ways that Schofield compensated with what remaining facial expression he had left.  
Like the way he smirked with only one corner of his mouth raised when he was amused but trying not to show it.  
How he stuck his tongue out that same corner absentmindedly when he was concentrating hard.  
The way he chewed his bottom lip when he was nervous.  
The full encouraging smile that lifted his cheeks and made him look like the young man he was when he was proud of his team and the twisted little half smile he tried to suppress when he was proud of himself.

Shane had broken his nose in hand to hand combat training.

Book had let him cry on his shoulder at the funeral of Lieutenant Andrew Trent, USMC.

And on one particularly memorable occasion, they had been attempting to hand make pizza dough in the small base kitchen at Pearl.  
Somehow, half the dough had ended up on the ceiling and the other half, covering Book.

And now, a full year almost to the day since Buck Riley had pulled Shane Schofield out of that mess in Bosnia, they were all sitting in the small rec room of the USS Shreveport, bound for some hell-hole in Antarctica. A tinny television was flickering, playing reruns of some T.V show called 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire.' Sailing in Australian waters still, they were only picking up Australian television and that poorly at best.

Book sat in one chair in one corner of the room, trying to get away from the noise, with his pen poised thoughtfully over a blank page of a novel he knew he'd never finish.

Schofield sat curled up in the other chair in the opposite corner, his nose buried in a very old and very battered copy of Lord of the Rings.

Between them, the rest of the unit milled around, variously playing cards or watching the television and generally making a lot of noise and yet over it all, Buck heard the host clearly.

"The first Lord Protector of England was…?"

"Oliver Cromwell," Shane Schofield muttered under his breath without looking up from the book.

Buck Riley just smiled.

_fin_


End file.
